Ashby needed nothing more than this. In an instant, much to the Sheriff’s astonishment, and moving marvellously quick for a man of his heavy build, he was out of the room, leaving Rance to face a woman with a black mantilla thrown over her head who, presently, entered by another door. Nina Micheltoreña, for it was she, did not favour him with as much as an icy look. Nor did the Sheriff give any sign of knowing her; a wise proceeding as it turned out, for a quick turn of the head and a subtle movement of the woman’s shoulders told him that she was in anything but a quiet state of mind. One glance towards the door behind him, however, and the reason of her anger was all too plain: A Mexican was vainly struggling in the clutches of Ashby. “Why are you dragging him in?” Far from quailing before him as did her confederate, she confronted Ashby with eyes that flashed fire. “He came with me--” Ashby cut her short. “We don’t allow greasers in this camp and--” he began in a throaty voice. “But he is waiting to take me back!” she objected, and then added: “I wish him to wait for me outside, and unless you allow him to I’ll go at once.” And with these words she made a movement towards the door. Ashby laid one restraining hand upon her, while with the other he held on to the Mexican. Of a sudden there had dawned upon him the conviction that for once in his life he had made a grievous mistake. He had thought, by the detention of her confederate, to have two strings to his bow, but one glance at the sneeringly censorious expression on the Sheriff’s face convinced him that no information would be forthcoming from the woman while in her present rebellious mood. “All right, my lady,” he said, for the time being yielding to her will, “have your way.” And turning now to the Mexican, he added none too gently: “Here you, get out!” Whereupon the Mexican slunk out of the room. “There’s no use of your getting into a rage,” went on Ashby, turning to the woman in a slightly conciliatory manner. “I calculated that the greaser would be in on the job, too.” All through this scene Rance had been sitting back in his chair chewing his cigar in contemptuous silence, while his face wore a look of languid insolence, a fact which, apparently, did not disturb the woman in the least, for she ignored him completely. “It was well for you, Señor Ashby, that you let him go. I tell you frankly that in another moment I should have gone.” And now throwing back her mantilla she took out a cigarette from a dainty, little case and lit it and coolly blew a cloud of smoke in Rance’s face, saying: “It depends on how you treat me--you, Mr. Jack Rance, as well as Señor Ashby--whether we come to terms or not. Perhaps I had better go away anyway,” she concluded with a shrug of admirably simulated indifference.